


Wincest Drabbles

by Charlie Snow (Algedonic)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Body Worship, Character Study, Codependency, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Crying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Drabble, Drabble Collection, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Kissing, M/M, Manhandling, Massage, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 19:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16859671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Algedonic/pseuds/Charlie%20Snow
Summary: All the drabbles originally posted on my Tumblr





	1. The one with the bed sharing

Dean ignores it for as long as he can, tries to give Sam his space, give him his privacy - as much privacy as he can, anyway, with Sam in the other bed, sound of his hitched breaths and the sight of his shoulders shaking under the covers in the dark breaking him apart, making him ache somewhere deep down next to his bones, under his ribs between his lungs. 

He wants to crawl inside him and soothe the hurt, wrap Sam’s heart up so tight nothing can ever wound it again but he can’t. He doesn’t know how. Sam is grieving for Jessica and for the life he built for himself and for all the dreams that went up in flames that night and Dean doesn’t know how to make it better and it hurts so bad he can’t breathe, sometimes.

He leaves Sam alone as long as he can, makes it four nights before he just can’t take it anymore, can’t listen to Sam cry himself to sleep another night without breaking down himself. He slips under the covers and wraps his arms around Sam from behind and pulls him close, doesn’t say a word when Sam’s sob breaks the silence, holds him tighter when Sam grabs his hand and holds on like Dean’s the only thing keeping him from falling.

It takes weeks for Sam to stop crying, but Dean doesn’t mind. When the nightmares wake him up in the middle of the night Dean is there, carding his fingers through Sam’s hair and rubbing his back and whispering to him in the dark, soothing him back to sleep like he used to when Sam was little and Sam lets him, curls up and tucks his face into Dean’s chest and falls asleep again. 

Dean doesn’t know what else he can do, hopes that this is enough. Enough to remind Sam that he’s not alone, that no matter how dark things get, Dean will never leave him. He can’t take this from Sam, can’t cut it out or make him forget or protect him from it, but he can do this, and when Sam takes a shaky breath and presses a kiss to his collarbone and whispers  _thanks, Dean_ , he thinks it’s enough.


	2. The one about Dean

Dean loves with his hands, with his body, with every time he bumps shoulders with Sam and tosses him a grin, every time he pulls Sam’s feet into his lap and wraps his hand around his ankle, every time he cards his fingers through Sam’s hair when they’re curled up together on the edge of sleep.

Words make him skittish and he uses them sparingly, afraid to give up too much of himself, and it takes Sam years to understand. Dean speaks with the look in his eyes and the curve of his mouth and the tension in his shoulders, with his arm around Sam’s waist and his hand on his neck and his lips on his forehead.

Dean loves with his hands and his eyes and his mouth, with every hitch of his breath and quirk of his lips and brush of his fingers over Sam’s skin. It takes Sam years to learn Dean’s language, to become fluent in the twitch of Dean’s jaw and the lines on his face, to appreciate the subtle eloquence in a glance or flash of teeth, to translate the words Dean speaks with his fingers and the press of his lips. Dean builds him universes with the rhythm of his hips, with the touch of his hands, with the drag of his teeth.

Dean spells out his words on Sam’s skin, leaves them aching in Sam’s muscles, stutters them out hot and breathless into Sam’s hair and this is how they say it, with the clutch of their fingers and the bite of their nails and the ache in their lips, the taste of salt and the sound of their breath and the rush of blood under their skin.

It took Sam years but he doesn’t need it, the words, doesn’t need to hear Dean say them to know they’re true. Dean tells him with a press of lips in the morning, his arms around Sam’s waist while he brushes his teeth, the smile he feels pressed into his shoulder, and Sam understands.


	3. The one with the body worship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Sam gets to take his time.

Dean doesn’t let him get away with it that often. He doesn’t like the attention, doesn’t like laying back and letting Sam look, letting him kiss and touch and Sam gets it so he doesn’t push but sometimes - usually when they’ve both got a few whiskey shots in them so that Dean can roll his eyes and bitch about how handsy Sam gets when he’s drunk and so he can blame the blush on his cheeks on the alcohol and chalk it up to liquor-induced lack of coordination when he lets Sam push him down and get him out of his clothes - sometimes Sam gets what he wants, gets to kiss the little crinkles at the corners of Dean’s eyes and kiss the freckles on his cheeks and nudge his nose into the side of Dean’s neck and kiss and kiss and kiss, grin into his shoulder when Dean grumbles halfheartedly at him, calls him a girl as he runs his hands down Sam’s back and Sam trails his fingers down his sides, bitches that it tickles but doesn’t pull away. Sam doesn’t say a word, rubs his thumbs in little circles over Dean’s wrist as he kisses his fingers and his palm and up the inside of his forearm all the way back up to his shoulder, makes a detour to his lips and then onward again, down and down over collarbones and ribs, loves the way Dean’s stomach jumps under his lips, the way he can see his breath catch as he catches a drop of sweat with his tongue before it makes it down Dean’s side to drip onto the sheets. He gets distracted below Dean’s bellybutton, gets a gasp out of him when he bites a little, gentle little nibble and he can’t help it, Dean’s got this little tummy from all the burgers and the pie and the beer and it makes Sam crazy and he can’t  _help_  it, kisses and licks and nibbles and Dean’s gonna kill him when he sees the mark Sam’s leaving but right now his fingers are clenching in Sam’s hair and his breath’s coming all quick and uneven and Sam doesn’t care. He runs his lips over it, presses a kiss before he moves on to lick at Dean’s hip, nuzzle into the crease of his thigh and kiss his way down, leaves the outline of his teeth on the inside of Dean’s thigh, kisses his knee, runs his hand down his calf and mouths his way down to his ankle and it makes Dean squirm when he kisses him there, draws a little whimper out of him and Sam just smiles, will never say a word about it. He works his way back up Dean’s other side, same path in reverse and by the time he’s back at his lips Dean’s shaking with it, eyes wide and dark and Sam can tell that much longer and Dean will beg in spite of himself but Sam doesn’t want that, doesn’t need it. He watches Dean watch him as he gets him off, easy and slow and confident. He’s an expert at this by now, knows just where to kiss and when to nip and how to work his tongue to get Dean’s toes curling and hips stuttering and gorgeous broken whimper-moans escaping before Dean’s got a chance to stop them and when it’s done he just keeps kissing, keeps touching, drinks in the sight of Dean all sleepy and sated and licks the salt from his skin because he can, because he wants to, and doesn’t stop until Dean’s eyes slip shut and his breathing slows and his fingers go limp where they’re buried in Sam’s hair. Sam curls up around him and closes his eyes, lets the rhythm of Dean’s breathing lull him to sleep. Dean will blush about it in the morning, just a little, call Sam a fucking girl when he wraps his arms around Dean’s waist and kisses his neck while he’s brushing his teeth, bitch about the hickey on his stomach but Sam will notice the way his eyes linger on it in the mirror, and he won’t say a word about it.


	4. The one where Dean comes to Stanford

Dean’s on him before he’s even got the door closed. 

“So. Got yourself a girlfriend, eh Sammy?”

“Dean-” Sam tries, squirming, backed up against the door as Dean attacks his neck, pins his wrists. 

Jess is downstairs,  _right_ downstairs, directly below them, in the kitchen, doing  _homework._ Sam’s breath leaves him in a rush as Dean shoves him down on the bed. The bed he shares with Jessica. His head spins.

“She'll  _see._ " Sam whines as Dean’s teeth sink into his shoulder, and he bites back a moan when when Dean shoves two lubed fingers into him.

Dean’s eyes are dark and his grin is wicked. "Better be quiet, unless you want her to  _hear._ ”


	5. The one with the shoulder rub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is sore. Dean respects boundaries. They're not alright, but they will be someday.

Sam rolls his shoulders, stretches his arms above his head, sighs.

“Sore?” Dean glances up from the gun he’s cleaning. Sam’s in shape, has been since he was 10, but you work different muscles teaching yoga and aerobics than you do hunting monsters.

“I’m fine.” Closed off. Distant. Dean hates that.

“Not what I asked, Sammy.” He gets up, walks over, scoots onto the bed behind Sam. “Here. Let me.”

“Dean-” Sam starts to protest, but Dean’s faster, thumbs digging into the hard tense muscles of Sam’s shoulders, his neck, and Sam lets out a sigh. 

Dean knows every spot that gets Sam, all the places that knot up when he’s stressed or when he’s sad, the right amount of pressure to get him to let it go. He’s not sure how to be the brother that Sam needs, how to fix the things that are broken, but he knows how to do this. He knows how to touch Sam, and everything else may be in pieces, but this… this will never change.

“God, you’re really good at that.”

Dean smiles, digs his thumbs in along Sam’s spine, between his shoulder blades, lower, works out the tension one spot at a time until Sam’s loose and breathing deep and slow.

It barely counts as a kiss, the light brush of lips at the nape of Sam’s neck, but it makes Sam shiver just the same. 

“Dean, we can’t just… this doesn’t mean-”

“I know.” They’re a long way from that. They’re both in so many jagged pieces right now that to get that close would tear them both to shreds. Sam doesn’t trust him, and Dean understands. He doesn’t really trust himself. They’ve got work to do, with themselves and with each other, need to relearn everything about their life and mend a lot of really terribly broken things. “I know, Sam. I’m not asking.”

Sam lets out a breath, nods. “Okay.  _Thank_ you.”

Dean stretches up, kisses Sam’s temple. “Get some rest, Sammy.”

They’ll be okay.


	6. The one where Sam's tattoo is gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fix-it fic circa season 9-ish

It’s not easy. They’re not okay. With themselves or with each other, with  _any_ of it. But they try. It takes time, but they try.

It’s weeks before they touch, months before the anger and pain ebbs enough to let them do more. Sam feels betrayed. He has every right. Dean feels guilt so heavy he thinks he’s lucky it hasn’t cracked his chest, crushed his lungs.

The first time hurts. Dean undoes the buttons of Sam’s shirt slowly, and Sam lets him. Raises his arms when Dean tugs at his tshirt. Shivers when Dean just looks at him, goosebumps following in the wake of Dean’s fingers on his skin.

He knows what Dean’s looking at. He’s been wearing an amulet, keeping it close, but the patch of skin above his heart is bare. Still bare. Achingly, glaringly bare. 

That tattoo was a part of him, a part of them. Another thing Dean took without asking, but Sam tries not to think about it like that.

Dean touches the spot, traces the invisible edges he knows by heart, edges he’s tasted and touched and nipped at with his teeth, and something breaks inside him again, something that he’d thought he’d started to fix.

“Hey,” Sam says, grabs Dean’s hand, traps it splayed out against that spot, “it’s okay. Dean. Look at me.”

Dean looks up, swallows hard. He doesn’t think he deserves this. Doesn’t know how after everything, his sweet, smart,  _perfect_ little brother has managed to survive. Managed to keep all the things that make him who he is. Sweet and smart and perfect and  _Dean’s._ Doesn’t know why Sam’s let him. Kept him. Stayed.

“I-”

“We’ll get another.” Sam says. We. Not I. “I want it back, Dean.”

Dean nods, can’t help the noise he makes when he presses his lips to Sam’s, when Sam’s hand cups his cheek, slides back into his hair.

They’re not okay, but they’re trying. 


	7. The one about Sam's ankles

“I like your ankles.”

Sam gives himself a minute, turns that over in his groggy brain a few times. Dean’s thumb is rubbing little circles in the dip on the inside of his foot, between his ankle bone and his heel. “You what?”

“I said,” Dean wraps his hand farther around the top of Sam’s foot where it’s resting in his lap, curves his fingers over the bump of bone on the outside, “I like your ankles.”

Sam smiles a little in spite of himself. “Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.”

“Seriously,” Dean says, presses in a little and rubs the skin in little circles around the bone, “they’re nice.” He slides his free hand around and drags his nails lightly up the arch of Sam’s foot, tightens his grip around Sam’s ankle when Sam’s breath hitches and he squirms. “Your feet are pretty cute too.”

Dean’s tracing idle patterns on the sole of his foot, and it tickles. “You’re a freak,” he says, and Dean grins, slides his hand up Sam’s pantleg to wrap around the back of his calf, and Sam feels too warm, a little tingly, the way he always does when Dean touches him like this. Like he’s  _his_.

“Runs in the family, Sammy.”

Sam can’t argue with that.


	8. The one with possessive!Dean

Usually Dean’s possessiveness is stifling, Sam feels the weight of his constant attention bearing down on him and it makes him feel smaller than he is, younger - it feels like an insult, like a lack of trust, like condescension, like Dean thinks Sam is fragile or childish, like he can’t handle a gun or a knife just as well as Dean can.

Usually Sam hates it, usually it frustrates him and makes him want to lash out, tell Dean to fuck off but then. Then there are times like  _now_ , times when Dean shoves him down on the bed, gets his pants off and his legs splayed wide and flips him on his stomach, gets all growly and rumbly as he nips at his thighs and the curve of his ass, makes his head spin as he works in a finger, two, three. Times like these Sam doesn’t hate it, fucking  _loves_  it, loves the way Dean growls his name - Sam, sometimes, but usually  _Sammy_  - loves the way he presses him down and splits him open, loves the way Dean sinks his teeth into the back of his neck, loves the way his fingers leave bruises on his hips, loves the way Dean fucks him like he’s trying to crawl inside him and carve his name on Sam’s soul.

Times like these it doesn’t feel like an insult, feels like a fucking compliment, makes his heart swell and clog up his throat cause this isn’t lack of trust in him, it’s lack of trust in the  _world_ , in every single thing in existence  _except_  for him, and when Dean gasps and hits so deep that Sam does too, when he pants Sam’s name into his ear and wraps his fingers around Sam’s cock and plays his body like a violin Sam  _gets it_  and he can’t fault Dean for watching, for only letting Sam out of his sight when he absolutely has to cause he feels exactly they same way, wants to get his claws sunk deep in Dean’s soul and hold on until the end of time and never let go for anything, not  _anything_ , not  _ever_.

And afterwards when Sam is sore and fighting sleep, ache of his brother sunk so deep beneath his skin that he’s not sure it’ll ever fade and content cause he doesn’t  _want_  it to, when Dean kisses his neck and wraps his arm tight around Sam’s waist and tugs him close and whispers ‘I  _trust_  you’ like it’s the most important thing in the world, Sam understands.


	9. The one with the codependency

Sometimes Sam feels like Dean is the only thing keeping him upright. Dean is… gravity. The only thing keeping Sam from just drifting off, getting lost completely in the push-pull and the darkness and the overwhelming emptiness of it all. He’s gravity and he’s the mortar between the bricks of who Sam is, sunk in deep down snug around Sam’s bones, filling in the empty places and keeping it all from crumbling.

It itches. It itches and it aches and Sam hates it sometimes, fights it and convinces himself he can do without it, that’s he’s fine, that he can stand without it. It’s not true. It all falls apart, sooner or later, brick by brick until its nothing but rubble and it’s not healthy, Sam knows, not normal and not okay but he can’t live without it and he knows that too.

Dean’s the center of it all. Stone number one. Always has been. It doesn’t matter why, it doesn’t matter who caused it,  _what_  caused it. It goes beyond codependency - Sam went to college, he knows a thing or two about a thing or two - Dean’s so close that half the time Sam can barely see him. He’s a part of Sam that lives outside his body - infuriatingly, frustratingly separate and not all at once. Sometimes the distance is too much. Sometimes the space between them aches and throbs and Sam wants to burn it away, reel Dean in and tuck himself inside him and never let a single molecule between them ever again. Dean feels the same, Sam thinks. The proximity is as toxic as it is essential, gets everything mixed up, Dean with Sam and Sam with Dean and need and want and fear and dread and everything they are individually and together but they’re so tangled up in each other after it all that they could spend the rest of their lives trying to work out the knots and die before they made a dent. Sam knows it and Dean knows it and mostly they don’t even try anymore.

He needs Dean like he needs his lungs, like he needs his heart, his spinal cord. He doesn’t function right without him, if he functions at all. He’s tried - God knows he’s tried. Tried to disentangle them, stand without him, but Dean’s not a crutch - he’s a leg. He’s the reason Sam has the strength to get out of bed in the morning, the glue that keeps his jagged pieces together, his port in a storm, and most of the time, Sam doesn’t even  _want_  to straighten it all out. It’s messy and complicated and chaotic, but Sam’s used to that. Dean’s his only constant, his  _reason_ , the warm and steady presence at his side and at his back that lets him breathe, lets him think, reminds him that no matter how long and dark his nights, the sun always rises, morning always comes. Dean’s more than his brother, more than his best friend, more than his family. Dean is endgame; Dean’s all there is. He’s volatile and hypocritical and obnoxious and frustratingly self-righteous, sometimes, but he’s also loyal and compassionate and protective and brave and he’s  _Sam’s_. Everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s ever needed, Sam’s first thought when he wakes up in the morning and last before he goes to sleep, and Sam wouldn’t change him, wouldn’t change  _them_ , for the world.


End file.
